A Rant about Baseball

 This is "The Gods Are Bored," and I assure you, I love baseball. It's my favorite sport, because I am in constant awe that anyone could hit such a small ball, moving so fast, in such a way that it will fall somewhere in a field. It's amazing. And it's the only sphere (ha ha) of life where being 1/3 good at your job makes you a superstar.

As a child, I went to sleep listening to the Baltimore Orioles on the radio. My parents were Orioles fans, and they would put the game on at night. I can clearly remember wondering how all the players' names were spelled. Sure, Jim Palmer and Brooks and Frank Robinson, easy. But Andy Echebarran? Carl Yazstremski? Mike Cuellar? Woof.

The Orioles were great throughout the 1960s and early 1970s. Then they got hot again in 1979, just in time for me to be living six blocks from the stadium through the summer. To sweeten the pot, the Orioles had a student ticket price of $1.75 for upper deck. Yes, the decimal point is in the right place.

I went to every home game that summer.

The way it worked was, I would walk down to the stadium, go to a ticket booth, show my student ID, get a paper ticket, and go to the turnstile. At the turnstile, one of many ushers would tear the ticket in half and give back the stub. Done! Find a seat. Sometimes I sat by myself, sometimes I had friends with me, and sometimes I sat in a section full of rowdies who, like me, went every night.

When I got home from a game, I would take a piece of scotch tape and tape the ticket stub to the wall in my apartment. I didn't start doing this until nearly mid-season, but I'm pretty sure I had more than 50 stubs on that wall.

Good times, good times.

But enough of the great bygone days. Let's look at a modern trip to the ballpark, shall we?

The Orioles were in Philadelphia for a three-game visit. Self, Fair, and Mr. J got seats for the 7/25/23 game, which cutely happened to be "Christmas in July." I am fully aware of how Philadelphia fans treat visiting teams and their fans, but I was determined to wear my bright orange Orioles Hawaiian shirt that The Heir had trash-picked from West Philly. More about that in a moment.

Mr. J purchased the tickets, lower deck on the third base side. They cost $60 apiece, with another $20 for guaranteed parking near the third base entrance. The cost alone is jaw-dropping. But to make matters worse, I had to download an app to access a QR code that was my ticket. Ponder this. Go ahead, I'll give you a moment.

This is Philadelphia, so of course I got trash-talked before even getting within spitting distance of the ballpark. But the Orioles are hot at the moment, and Baltimore is only 100 miles from Philly, so I had plenty of fellow fans in orange to commiserate with. (Mr. J wore neutral colors and Fair, a fan of all things Philadelphia, was decked in home team colors.)

When we got to the entry kiosk, I didn't know how to hold my phone so the stadium could scan the code. Fair had to do it for me. And oh yes, before that step we had to go through a security checkpoint that took an X-ray of the contents of our purses.

Finally in the stadium, $200 out of pocket, and one "go back to Baltimore" so far.

Reader, have you been in one of these modern ballparks? They are as loud as the halls of Hell. It isn't fans cheering, it's the jumbo-trons. DANG you cannot hear the person sitting next to you! (Which, given that I was surrounded by Phillies fans, might have been a good thing.)

Mr. J and I had been determined to eat an early dinner before we went to the ballpark. But one thing led to another, and we didn't. The worst place in the world to be hungry is a modern baseball park. The food is dreadful, and you have to take a second mortgage to purchase it. No exaggeration: a bottle of water is five bucks. I don't know what Mr. J spent on the inedible sandwiches he bought for us, but he tells me they don't take cash at the food stands. Lord love ten thousand fruit flies! I'll bet he paid more for the food and beverages we consumed during that game than we did for the half bushel of large, fat crabs from TL Morris Seafood last week.

The stadium was packed. The fans were loud. The Phillies either trailed or tied until the bottom of the ninth, when they got two outs and then scored and won the game. This exhibit about sums it up.

EXHIBIT A: CITIZENS BANK PARK, 7/25/23

About all I can say is, my shirt is the tits.

I wish I could say I'm done with live baseball for all time, but I already have a ticket to another game in late August. This ticket only cost $40, but then I bought a plus-one for Mr. J, so oh boy. It's possible for us to use mass transit to get to the ballpark, which will maybe save us a whopping $10. But I am going to be like Persephone in Hades and not let a morsel of food or drink pass my lips while there.

Just think of it. I saw a whole damn season of home games in 1979 for less than one game in 2023. And I had something to tape on the wall when I got home.

About the only thing that's stayed the same is my devotion to the Baltimore Orioles. What a great team. Go Birds!

Baseball as a Metaphor for Our Times: Interview with a Bored Goddess

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today, once again, we are talking baseball, the all-American game, pure as apple pie. Nothing quite like finding a good seat in an airy ballpark, with your bag of peanuts and cup of beer, to watch a sporting event featuring young, good-looking men who move like panthers!

One of my legion of commenters noted that baseball is a metaphor for life on many levels. Absolutely correct! Give that intelligent person a pie!

Sadly, today's American baseball also reflects what's wrong with our country -- how out-of-control things have become. Here today to discuss this matter with me is a bored Goddess who has every right to hold a grudge against American sports. We've talked before, and She is a delight. Please give a warm, wonderful, "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Nike, Goddess of Victory sacred to the Ancient Greek peoples!

Anne: Well, Nike, we've talked about this before, but it bears repeating. Your name is associated with a brand of sporting equipment, made by child labor in Third World countries and sold at inflated prices to people who think they're getting something special, when really they're not.

Nike: I would curse everyone who wears the "swoosh," but that would cause a lot of havoc. I have restrained myself.

Anne: Admirable, dear Goddess. Today I would like to talk with you about the sorry state of American spectator sports, with emphasis on baseball.

Nike: I like baseball. It beats naked Spartan wrestling by a country mile. Better a man in tight pants than a naked one. It exercises the imagination.

Anne: Agreed! Although I must say I fondly remember the Jim Palmer Jockey Shorts posters.

Nike: MmmmMMMMMmmmm. Me too!

Anne: Have you noticed, Nike, that professional baseball has followed the trend of modern American, almost in a lock-step?

Nike: Oh yes indeed. Sometimes, to make a little spending money, I sell beer in Yankee Stadium. Remember, I don't get a single dime from the merchandise that bears my name.

Anne: Neither does the lady who designed the "swoosh." Anyway, let's do a little tandem bitching here, okay? We'll call it "Baseball as a Metaphor for What's Wrong with America." You go first.

Nike: Ticket prices for professional sporting events are out of reach of middle class families. A dad can't take his three kids to the ballpark anymore unless he has seriously planned and budgeted for the event.

Anne: New baseball stadiums have been built around the concept of corporate boxes for high-rollers. People use those boxes, but not for watching baseball. In the meantime, as you said, ordinary folks can't afford to get inside the park.

Nike: This reflects the trend towards a polarized society, where the rich reap out-sized rewards, and the poor and middle-class make sacrifices.

Anne: In modern ballparks, fancy computerized scoreboards run constantly during the game and are especially loud and bright between innings. It's like a video game in the outfield, chock-a-block with subliminal advertising.

Nike: This reflects an overall reduction in attention span among the American populace. Most fans, if they were to be transported back in time to the years of your childhood, Anne, would be bored to tears by baseball.

Anne: When I went to see the Baltimore Orioles with my dad in 1969, the scoreboard had been made automatic, number-wise, but that was the end of it. Between innings we watched Brooks Robinson stretch his hamstrings.

Nike: Great guy. And a good example of another downturn in America's game. Today's pro players are beefed up on steroids, way overpaid for what they do, and they're arrogant and rude. Remember how Brooks Robinson used to take you little-old-lady neighbor out to lunch and get her seats behind the plate?

Anne: I sure do! When one of my best friends was dying, Brooks called him on the phone and talked to him. Oh well, not many people measure up to Brooks Robinson, let's face it. But it's true that the modern baseball player is a chemical nightmare with a bad temper.

Nike: This represents the American desperation to be a financial success at any cost. And having found that success, to act like the others who have also found it -- completely aloof.

Anne: Little kids never pick up a baseball game on a sandlot anymore. They're driven into Little Leagues, where their fathers yell and curse at the umpires.

Nike: This reflects the regimentation of American childhood. Kids don't just "play" sports anymore. They have to have uniforms, and schedules, and coaches, and parents watching. Did anyone watch when the kids in your neck of the woods played baseball and football in the cow pasture?

Anne: Nope. And no one got hurt either. Well, there were a few fights. But that was between kids. No adults intervened, and we worked it out ourselves.

Nike: At the same time that sporting events have become regimented and unaffordable, they have been elevated to a level of worship in some quarters.

Anne: Absolutely correct, dear Goddess. In my youth, a Sunday soccer league would have been unthinkable. Nowadays, even the busy god is seeing His praise and worship team eroded by  Sunday sports. Not that we didn't play sports on Sunday when I was a kid. It's just that it was un-regimented, and we played in the afternoon, after church, when all the adults were napping.

Nike: You know what makes me sick? Corporate names on ball parks. Here in Philadelphia, it used to be Franklin Field. Veterans' Stadium. Now it's Citizens Bank Park. Excuse me while I hack up a fur ball. (Ugly noises)

Anne: Joining you on the hack. (Ugly noises) I have never set foot in Citizens Bank Park, and I don't intend to. For one thing, I can't afford a ticket. And even the minor league ballparks are named for corporations now! They too have the garish scoreboards and all sorts of between-inning distractions! And get this, Nike: At the Lakewood Blue Claws -- a single-A affiliate -- I paid eight bucks for a seat on grass, behind the foul pole! There was no general admission seating except a grassy knoll! Single A. How long until even the minors get too expensive for a family of four?

Nike: One last observation, and I must fly. When teams win big championships, like the World Series, riots erupt in the winning cities. Cars get burnt. In Detroit in 1984, a guy got shot and killed -- during a celebration.

Anne: This reflects the middle- and lower-class frustration with daily life. There's so much rage, and no way to vent it constructively. Nike, what are we to do about all of this?

Nike: Sad to say, things will crash and burn. I've seen it happen before, trust me. I don't need to advise you to encourage your kids to play outside, creating their own games using their imaginations. You did that. But if any of your three readers have children, they should do the same. And instead of shelling out for a baseball game, take the family hiking, or on a picnic. You may have to pay a little bit to park, but think about having that whole six-pack of Coors for the price of one small cup at the ballpark!

Anne: MmmMMMMmmm. And better food too! I could buy three bags of Planters trail mix for the price of a little sack of Blue Claw peanuts.

Nike: Anne, you have to start thinking outside the ballpark.

Anne: Yeah, I'm working on it. Thank you for visiting, Great Goddess Nike! Here's a bottle of Gatorade for your trouble!

Nike: Thanks. And I'll be sure to leave the empty in your recycle bin.


Well, sports fans, this was kind of a downer, huh? Nike is justifiably bitter, and so am I. But bitterness is not the name of the game here! Tomorrow I'll take another walk down my baseball memory lane, and then -- pinky promise -- back to the work of the bored gods!

An Old Flame Re-Ignites, Part One

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"  Tonight's sermon topic is one of the longest loves of my life: baseball.

I've always loved watching a live baseball game. Don't you? The sweet, green grass, the elegant players, the quiet precision of the white ball snapping from glove to glove ... ah, it's wonderful.

To me, baseball has a mystical appeal that our other big national sports lack. The field is a "diamond," but actually everything's round. You start at home, and you end at home. Everything in between is like ballet. Despite all the coaching in the world, no two pitchers work exactly alike. Every batter has his own little ritual and his own way of connecting with the ball. The guys at farthest remove from the action have to pay as close attention as the one behind the plate. It's a strategic, graceful game, not totally without its roughness, but the scoring is supposed to be done without crushing the skull of the opposing player.

This is not a very original observation, but in baseball you are considered a tremendous success if you do things right three out of every ten tries. If I only passed three of every ten students in my classes, I would be fired. But that's just how hard baseball is to get right. It is one freaking tough skill game. I admire anyone who even attempts to do it.

I'm writing this because on Thursday night I went with Mr. J to a minor league ballpark in Lakewood, New Jersey to watch a baseball game. Only when I had paid $8.00 for a seat on the grass behind the foul pole, gotten myself a beer and a bag of peanuts, did I realize that baseball was a love I had lost and need to find again.

If you are coming to this site for insightful Pagan commentary, today is not your day. Tomorrow isn't looking too good either. But if you feel, as I do, that anything that harms none, and pleases most, is great and holy, then All Hail Baseball!

When I was a girl in the 1960s, only boys could participate in Little League. I am intensely grateful for that. Being left-handed, and having less hand-eye coordination than a turtle, I never would have made a Little League team. And if I did, some coach would have yelled at me until I slunk away, hating the game and myself.

In the 1960s, our section of the county had its own team, and all the local boys were on it. My mom loved baseball so much that she would take me to watch the games. This was that time of life when girls have cooties and boys are icky, but I still could tell that my homeboys liked having me as a fan. Most important, my mother was not exactly sane, but there was something about baseball that brought out the best in her. So when I remember her fondly, it's usually when we were watching baseball together.

The team was just called Oak Ridge, from where we lived, and the team colors were purple and white. I can still remember the names of some of the boys on the team. And they were pretty good. They made the playoffs two years in a row and lost in the finals by one (disputed) run.

I'm going to go to bat (tee hee) for the idea that some things are just gender specific. I couldn't be in Little League, but I wasn't bitter or jealous. While they had baseball practice, I went swimming, jumped rope, and ran just for the fun of running. Then I went and watched the boys play ball.

At the end of the summer, the county Little League had a picnic and swimming party for all of the teams. The moms of some of the boys told me they thought I had been such a good and faithful fan that I should come to the picnic. I was so excited! I would actually get to be at a picnic with all the Little League homeboys! And go swimming too!

You know what I discovered at the Little League picnic and swimming party? The boys didn't know how to swim! That's right. They had been so busy doing batting practice that they missed out on crawl stroke. I had the deep end all to myself as they watched, awe-struck, from the shallows.

It got better.

They lined us all up by age and had a sprint. I forget how far we had to sprint, but I don't forget the fact that I beat almost every Little League player in the county. I was probably trying harder, but that didn't matter.

This childhood sporting success is a memory that has stayed with me all my life, and to which I return when I feel insignificant.

They say that playing baseball gives you self-esteem and a sense of accomplishment. Not playing it can do the same, if you discover strengths beyond the diamond. With baseball, with Rituals, with anything at all in this world, sometimes it's fine just to watch. One size doesn't fit all. Wow, I say that a lot.